Dreams & Dalliances
by thegoatlady
Summary: He rubs John's cheek soothingly with a broad thumb, and John thinks it's probably dickish of him to be so surprised that the great Sherlock Holmes can be—this; caring, and warm, and gentle.


**AN: Welcome! This is set directly after the pool scene in The Great Game.**

 **/**

When they walk up the stairs to their flat, John hopes that the comfort of home might lift the weight from his shoulders. Instead, it feels almost as if more is being piled on. The whole world seems foreign and distorted, like he's perceiving everything through funhouse mirrors. Mycroft has finally let them out of his office at nearly two-o'clock in the morning, and as he pauses to hang his coat on its hook, he can tell even Sherlock has been worn thin enough to crack. He walks with his head hanging a little lower than he usually does, his gait slower. He looks defeated and a little aimless, which is a frighteningly discomfiting thought. John catches that his hands are still shaking a bit, clasped together as they are beneath his sculpted chin, and the sudden onset of the dark bags under his eyes stands out starkly in the shadows. The word _sociopath_ rings in John's head hollowly as he watches him.

"Sherlock?" It's a whisper, hoarse and ragged, but still it sounds too loud in the empty silence of the living room. There is always some kind of noise at Baker Street even on nights like this; whether it be the sound of scant late night traffic on the street below, or the warbling song of a purposefully off-tune violin, or even the distant vibrations of Mrs. Hudson shifting around in the apartment downstairs. Tonight, the flat is filled with a desolate stillness that sends chills shivering down John's spine at the sheer _inactivity_ of it all.

Sherlock lowers himself into his chair without a word, soft leather sighing beneath his weight, and once again the world no longer seems to exist to him, as John watches his eyes focus on some random point across the room and stay there. He's sequestered himself away in his mind palace, and John knows from extensive personal experience that his flatmate will be catatonically unresponsive for hours to come, if not for much longer. Because, as John has learned from some careful deduction of his own (take that, you wanker), this is Sherlock's preferred form of escape, second only to the drug-induced obliviousness of his past. This is the way that he handles the situations, rare in occurrence, that are too much for even his superior mind to process with that same unique, lightning-quick clarity to which he's accustomed.

John sighs. Approaches him. He reaches a hand out—pauses. He's swaying on his feet, he's so damn exhausted. Sherlock's eyes stare ahead unseeingly, a screensaver for that brilliant computer of a brain working double-time inside his skull. He knows Sherlock desperately needs sleep—it's going on four days, by John's count—but he also knows it will be a useless effort trying to rouse him from this state. Knowing that he will not even notice him doing it, John lets his fingers trail once through Sherlock's tangled curls, still damp from the pool, before he drags himself to his bedroom. He doubts he will be able to sleep peacefully, if at all. Trudging up the stairs, he realizes that this is the only time from the day he first followed Sherlock up those seventeen steps, that he has ever felt like he isn't safe within the walls of 221B.

" _John._ Oh, for God's sake, John, just _wake up!"_

John startles awake with a sort of undignified half-snore-half-yell, jolting at the sight of the wild haired consulting detective hovering over him, arms outstretched towards him and long fingers clutching firmly to his shoulders. The bedside lamp has been flicked on, and John squints against the assault of dim yellow light. There is an unmistakably troubled expression on Sherlock's face, made even more panic-inducing by the sallowness cast by the lamp, which makes his face look gaunt and drained of color. He must have been trying to wake him for some time now. John's heart stutters alarmingly in his chest as the memories of earlier that night begin to flood his mind; Moriarty, the pool, the explosion. He blinks owlishly, trying desperately to rouse himself from the vestiges of sleep."Sh'lock? What's wrong?"

Sherlock observes him stoically for a moment, as if making a decision, and then huffs exasperatedly in lieu of an actual response. He proceeds to pull back the sheets with a deliberate flare, and then he just— _crawls_ into John's bed on all fours and swaddles himself up in the blankets, like a bloody gerbil starved for warmth.

The sheets which he had previously been covered with are ripped away, and John is now painfully aware that he is wearing only a faded army t-shirt and his pants—the ones with the hole on the right arse cheek, no less. He manages to tug a few inches of blanket back for himself, and blinks dumbly at the back of his flatmate's head, his mop of dark curls standing out contrastingly against the drably colored bed sheets. "Sherlock," he calls, more alert than he had been a moment ago. No response, not even a grunt or a sigh.

Before tonight, John might have acted angry, might have shouted indignantly at Sherlock for climbing into his bed, shoved him on the floor and gone back to sleep, muttering about mad hatter flatmates and personal boundaries. But tonight is different. He doesn't think about it for too long. It just is.

"Sherlock?" he tries again softly, putting a hand on his bony shoulder. "You okay?"

It's silent for so long, John doesn't think Sherlock will answer. He might have thought he'd passed out on the bad end of an adrenaline crash, if it weren't for the tangible tension pulsating from him like the constant barrage of heat waves in the Registan Desert.

"You were screaming," Sherlock murmurs, still stubbornly facing away from him. And instantly John remembers; the nightmares come back to him in a flash. Tonight, they had ranged colorfully from Afghanistan to Moriarty. From his men bleeding out beneath his hands to frail old ladies forced to speak their killer's twisted words for him. Bombs strapped to every part of him, and Sherlock staring at him like he didn't know who he was as John stepped out of the shadows, that sickly sweet voice giggling threats into John's earpiece.

"Oh."

Apparently, he's become so used to blocking out his traumas that his brain has started doing it automatically for him. Ella would have had a field day with that one.

"Please, God," Sherlock intones monotonously, quoting him. John breathes heavily, in and out, in and out, loud in the silent night. Sherlock has never confronted him about the nightmares before; though John always knows that on those bad nights there will inevitably come the melodic strains of what he thinks is Moonlight Sonata, being expertly coaxed from the violin to ease him through his residual terror.

He digs the heels of his palms into his clenched eyelids, embarrassed. "I'm sorry if I woke you."

"You didn't."

Of course Sherlock wouldn't have been sleeping. John is surprised he was able to himself, however restless it had been. He attributes it less to actual tiredness, and more to his own unavoidable adrenaline crash. Now that his body has recovered slightly from the wild hormone spike, he doubts he'll be able to fall back to sleep as quickly as he had earlier in the night.

"Was it...him?" Sherlock asks after a time, tone cautious. He doesn't even dare to say _his_ name. John would be happy if he never had to hear it again.

"Hm. Yeah—yeah, he was part of it. Not the only part though. There was Afghanistan, too." _And you,_ he thinks. _That betrayed look in your eyes, as if you thought I could actually-_

John wonders if this is another dream—laying in bed with Sherlock at God knows what time of the night, idly chatting about bad dreams.

Sherlock pulls the covers more snugly around his shoulders, which are still as stiff as a statue's. Settling in. John realizes immediately what Sherlock is trying to do for him, and it makes a mixture of humility and warmth bloom in his chest.

"Sherlock, you don't—you don't have to—"

"I know."

"...Okay."

John wonders if maybe Sherlock doesn't need it too—the presence of another person beside him, the reassurance. There is a moment of unsure silence. He isn't used to hesitancy when it comes to Sherlock.

"Do you want me to?" his baritone whispers, and though it's still just as unaffected and cool as it always is, there's something lacking, something tentative in his question.

"Do _you_ want to?" John whispers back, gracelessly avoiding answering. He feels ostensibly like a secondary schooler too afraid to reach out and hold their date's hand for fear of soul-crushing rejection.

Sherlock doesn't actually answer, only readjusts his pillow and gets more comfortable. He takes an audibly deep breath, and when it comes out in an exhale his shoulders are relaxed, finally. Decision made, then.

"R-right, okay. Goodnight, Sherlock." John turns over on his side, facing away from his flatmate, tries not to let any part of him touch any part of Sherlock. He feels like nothing of this is real, like he's in a trance.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock reaches out to flick the lamp off, and after only a few moments, John's body seems to cave in on itself in exhaustion once again. Without trying to, he falls back to sleep easily with Sherlock's cozy warmth at his back. Despite everything, there are no more nightmares that evening.

When he wakes in the morning, sheets rumpled on both sides of the bed, Sherlock is gone. John tries not to feel disappointed.

That morning, over tea and toast and watching Sherlock fiddle with his laptop, ("Don't be silly, John, of course I've figured out your new password") John realizes with a contemplative pause as he's reading the newspaper, that he's more well-rested than he has been in years.

He can see that Sherlock's eyes are clearer as well, the tired bags that had been under his eyes last night gone, as well as the tremor in his hands. The resigned defeat that had seemed set into the line of his shoulders is absent now too, replaced back by his usual wild gestures and easy, confident posture.

They don't mention it. Not a word of it.

The next time it happens, a week later, John wakes up with a jagged gasp, tears staining his cheeks. He takes a shaky breath in, lets it out on a long, unsteady exhale. His heart pounds like a jackhammer in his chest. It had been one of those horrifying dreams that felt just real enough to leave him trembling when he startled himself awake, a part of him unconvinced that it was actually just a dream.

 _The sniper's laser, centered on Sherlock's forehead. Firing. Tumultuous verdigris eyes glinting dully against the pool's light and staring vacantly past John as he falls, caught forever in an expression of surprised panic. Gone. Jim Moriarty's demented laughter echoing against the tiles as John watches the blood trickle slowly down from the center of Sherlock's forehead. He feels like he is not in his own body—like he's watching a movie of his worst personal nightmares unfolding in front of him._

"Oh, Johnny boy," _Jim whispers mirthfully, so close behind him that John can feel his smile twisting against the shell of his ear. His breath reeks of blood. Or maybe that's Sherlock's blood he smells, still fresh. John cannot move, cannot breathe, cannot think. The consulting criminal's voice morphs into mocking concern, and the finger that tenderly brushes his hair back behind his ear feels like a snake's tail slithering across his skin, "_ Whatever will you do without him?" _And then it hits him with earth shattering force what has just happened, and John is screaming, screaming, screaming like he'll never be able to stop._

He hears the bedroom door creak slowly open and he jerks upright, mind surging back into reality immediately. Built-in army trained awareness kicks in and has him reaching blindly for a machine gun that is no longer there. He recognizes the disheveled, lanky silhouette hovering in the doorway and lets out a relieved breath, eyes fixed on him, and urges his heart rate to slow. He must have heard John in the throes of a nightmare and come up to check on him, he realizes distantly.

Before his sleep addled brain can catch up, John is on his feet, propelling himself forward. And then he is wrapped around Sherlock, gripping him tight, as if he's afraid he'll somehow disintegrate if he lets up on his hold. He's here, he's _alive_ —and oh God, is John crying again? After a moment of stunned stillness, Sherlock shushes him, rubbing wide, slow circles over his back. John clenches his hands in Sherlock's dressing gown, almost frantically. _He's here, he's here, right here._

This close, he smells of rosemary with the faintest whiff of nicotine, John thinks dazedly. No heady cologne or posh scented hair products, just the muted scent of Sherlock fresh out of rumpled bed sheets, warm and encompassing. The scent alone seems to calm him substantially, and so in that moment he allows his forehead to rest guiltlessly on Sherlock's shoulder, loosening his hold around the rest of him, but he doesn't let go yet. "It felt _so real_ , God, like I was _there_ ," he whispers mostly to himself, nose pressed into the safety of Sherlock's wrinkled burgundy dressing gown.

There is a slight 'ah' sound of understanding that comes from Sherlock, and John can feel the vibrations of his voice rumbling deep in his chest from this position. He never could have imagined how oddly comforting the sensation is. "Afghanistan, then?"

John shakes his head against Sherlock's shoulder mutely. He doesn't want to talk about it, doesn't want to remember it, and he certainly is not in the mood to have Sherlock analytically dissecting a dream that centered around his own horrific death; let alone the added curiosity of why a dream like that had caused John so much more distress than the ones about his own comrades being blown into nothing right in front of his eyes, all that was left of them being a shower of blood raining down on the place they'd just stood.

"No?" he sounds perplexed, but the caresses on John's back don't falter. "What on earth could make you this upset, then?"

Again, John simply shakes his head and Sherlock sighs but continues to hold him while he evens his breathing out and tries to gather his wits.

When John finally comes to his senses, actually realizes Sherlock is fine, (of course he is, he never isn't) Sherlock pulls slightly away and holds John by the shoulders, an astoundingly genuine expression of concern and bewilderment on his face as he examines him. He rubs John's cheek soothingly with a broad thumb, and John thinks it's probably dickish of him to be so surprised that the great Sherlock Holmes can be—this; caring, and warm, and gentle. His eyebrows furrow the same way as when he's on a case and knows he's missing a vital piece of information.

"What is it?" he whispers, ducking his neck to look at him in the eyes. A stray black curl tickles John's forehead.

"God, Sherlock—sorry." John pulls away, putting space between them. He tugs his shirt up to wipe with red hot embarrassment at his still damp face. _Get a fucking grip, Watson_ , he thinks to himself.

"No, don't be," Sherlock says, and his tone is compassionate in a way John has only ever heard him be with Mrs. Hudson—though it's different, somehow, with him. "Just tell me. I don't want—" a stuttered, frustrated sigh. "—I don't want you to hide yourself from me. You know it usually doesn't work, anyhow."

John shakes his head. Sherlock hasn't deduced it yet, then. Good. There's no way he's exposing himself any more than he already has. He's already been crying in front of the man, for God's sake. _You're a bloody soldier!_ a voice in his head barks sternly, but it lacks conviction. He tosses his hands up and lets them fall back to his side weakly. Tries his best to play it off so maybe Sherlock will leave him to lay awake the rest of the night and pity himself in peace. "Sherlock, it's just...another nightmare. That's all it was. Not hiding anything, scouts honor."

A dubious silence. Then, "John?"

John can tell what he's asking just by the intonation of his voice. He sighs.

"It really was just a dream, Sherlock. M'fine." He massages two fingers over the bridge of his nose and doesn't look Sherlock in the eyes. God, he feels pathetic. He can't believe he had just run into his flatmate's arms, bawling about a bad dream like a child. His face is so hot he thinks it might just melt right off. Even so, what's left of his injured masculine pride is the only thing that stops him from pulling Sherlock back into his arms and holding on for dear life. That and the fact that he might possibly never let go. Despite what everyone may think, John knows himself well; makes it a point to keep just the necessary amount of emotional and physical distance between himself and Sherlock, and for a damn good reason. John knows with certainty what it is that he wants. He just knows that he can't have it.

And he also knows Sherlock, knows that the kinds of _feelings_ John has been harboring for his flatmate for the last several months are just _not_ in the detective's ballpark—and honestly even if Sherlock miraculously _happened_ to " join the team" so to speak, he would certainly hold no interest in "playing ball" with John even on his best day. John figures he may as well use up this misplaced metaphor for all its worth. He's stubbornly gazing at the floor, broodingly thinking of all the things he could've done differently to _not_ end up in this shit predicament; so he doesn't realize that Sherlock plans to push past him and crawl into his bed until he's actually already done it, and John is left standing dumbfounded in the doorway.

"Sherlock?" John turns slowly and scratches at a spot on his eyebrow, watching bemusedly as he makes himself comfortable, fluffing his pillow and then blatantly stealing one of John's.

"Hm?"

"What the hell are you doing?" He isn't annoyed or angry when he says it—he thinks his voice is actually rather intimately quiet in the darkened bedroom. _What is_ Sherlock doing? John knows, of course he remembers, what happened that night they had just come back from the pool—but that night had been _different_. Hadn't it? They had both needed the comfort; like how a kid sleeps in their parent's bed during a thunderstorm. To know that they're safe.

Even through the dark, John can see Sherlock roll his eyes, but his tone isn't as harsh as it usually is accompanying that expression. "Obvious, John. I'm going to bed."

"Yeah, but here's the problem—you're in _my_ bed, not yours." John smiles a bit maniacally, wondering if this is yet another dream. If Sherlock will disappear at any moment, never having been there in the first place. He stuffs a hand into the pocket of his sweats, suddenly nervous.

"Hm. Clever deduction. Well done, John." Sherlock is barely holding back a deprecating smirk; John doesn't need to see his face to know it. John shakes his head, can't believe what he is about to allow himself to do; to sleep in the same bed with Sherlock for a second time—it's risky—but he can't help it. And plus, the added benefit that his presence seemed to keep the nightmares at bay is just the icing on the cake.

John thinks Sherlock is being an _absolute wanker_ right in this moment, yes...but he also thinks he is probably the best person he's ever had in his life; and Sherlock being an absolute wanker is by far preferable to John having to replay the image of him lying vacant and dead on a loop behind his eyelids as he tries to get back to sleep.

So, less reluctantly than he would ever admit aloud, with a small smile he hopes Sherlock can't see from across the room, John walks back towards his bed. Fondly, John tells him to budge up and shoves in next to him, and pretends not to savor the feeling of their legs pressed briefly up against each other under the covers on the too small mattress. Sherlock hums in content. It's different, this. When it's just he and Sherlock in the middle of the night, a world away from everybody else. There is a distinct lack of posturing and pretense here, in their private little moments, that John thinks he rather enjoys. They lie in comfortable silence for a few moments, before John gets up the courage to speak. "Sherlock...can I ask you something?"

A heavy sigh. "Redundant."

"Git. Never mind, then."

John listens to the easy sound of Sherlock's breathing for a moment. He gestures between them, lying parallel to each other on the bed. "Why are you doing this?" He hopes it doesn't sound accusatory—it certainly isn't how he means it. He means to say that Sherlock is wonderful, and brilliant, and quite possibly the best thing that has ever happened to him, and that he doesn't know what he ever did with his bloodstained hands to deserve him.

Sherlock tenses, though, and John regrets asking. His defenses have gone up. "You have nightmares. Some nights worse than others. This helps, does it not?" His voice is succinct, the hint of an edge in his tone. _Shit,_ John thinks. _I've done it now, haven't I?_

John tries to backtrack, but his words are rushed, and he stutters over his own tongue trying to cast reassurances. "No, Sherlock. I mean— _yes_ , it did—it _does_ help. It does. I just mean...you're doing this whole... _thing_ just for me, all to help _me_. All I meant is; I know you want to be stretched out in your own bed instead of being crammed into this sorry excuse for one right now. So why would you sacrifice that just so that I don't get nightmares?" John gives his profile a knowing look, though he doesn't look back at him.

Sherlock stares at the ceiling, but John sees—he isn't sure how but he sees the defensiveness starting to recede from his eyes, the metaphorical bridge being lowered over the metaphorical moat. John restrains himself from reaching out a hand to grab Sherlock's, settles for brushing a bare foot against his under the covers and passing it off as an accident. "Come on, I _know_ you," he insists, tempted to jam a finger into his chest to punctuate his words. "I know how you are. You generally don't even _like_ people! It must be awkward for you, having to sleep in a bed with someone else. A bloke, no less," John scoffs.

Sherlock's face finally deigns to turn towards him, slowly. John shudders under the focus of his gaze. "I don't think we're any regular pair of "blokes", do you?" he affects a goofy accent on the word and John snickers, unable to help himself. There's the hint of a smirk on Sherlock's face now, and John watches as he shakes his head and turns his face away, trying to hide the way his grin is expanding across his cheeks without his consent. John feels slightly victorious— _that look_ , right there, means that Sherlock has decided to let down his defenses, called for the sentinels standing guard outside his mind palace to hold their fire. A gentle rumble of a chuckle that John adores slips from Sherlock's lips before he sobers himself and lets out an unweighted sigh.

"Make no mistake, _Doctor_ Watson," his voice dips low on the official title, and something funny happens in John's stomach, like a tsunami of butterflies. Though Sherlock's tone hasn't noticeably varied from every other time he has casually spoken the name before, John discovers that while they lie in bed speaking in hushed voices, bodies close together, it sounds like Sherlock is saying something distinctly different.

"I don't _have_ to do anything which I do not please to be doing. And it isn't uncomfortable for me, John. With someone else, yes, probably. But not with you." He shrugs nonchalantly, as if he hadn't just made John's heart jump into his throat. He knows this isn't normal, not for them, not for Sherlock. God, but this feels so natural, so utterly right—laying in bed with this man and having whispered conversations late into the night, until they are lulled into sleep by each other's steady presence. So what if they deviated from their normal routines on these so unusual nights? John had left the prospect of "normalcy" behind already anyway, the moment this insane detective sprung into his life, stole his limp out from under him, and then never gave it the opportunity to sneak its way back in again.

"Yeah, uh—you, either, Sherlock. I, uh, I mean that." He winces at how moronic he must sound. He doesn't know what else to say though, or how to say it without making it sound like a scene straight out of a bloody rom-com. He wonders if Sherlock can read his mind, can see what he is trying to convey here. And if he ever did find out—if he did understand John's feelings for him—would he stay to explore them, or flee from him? John's throat tightens uneasily at having to think about it, and he decides to put it to the back burner until later notice.

The exhaustion of his most recent nightmare suddenly bears down on him again, and he sighs. John settles down in the mattress, staring at Sherlock staring at the ceiling, one arm crooked behind his neck. The dream _had_ felt far too realistic, and despite anything else, he's just content that Sherlock is lying next to him now, solid and breathing steadily. Whether anything more could ever come of it doesn't matter in the end; Sherlock is his best friend, and that won't ever change.

John silently observes him awhile longer, eyes trying to fall closed every few minutes. He can feel his own breathing getting heavier, but notices that Sherlock's isn't. He still seems unrelaxed if not tense, and though John knows he's likely just deep in thought, he doesn't like the small, edgy frown on his face. Can't fall asleep knowing it's there. He reaches a hand out, tentatively, and grips Sherlock's wrist. His hands are cold. "Thank you," he whispers, nudging closer and adjusting his grip down to reach the soft slightly warmer skin of Sherlock's hand. "You do help."

Sherlock's rigidity relaxes under his grip, so John decides not to let go just yet. Sherlock's expression is soft—verging dangerously on sentimental as lets his head loll to the side to look at him, but John's eyesight is starting to get blurry anyway so maybe it's only a trick of the light, or wishful thinking. John eventually lets his eyes slip closed, succumbing to the phantom weight pressing down on them. He thinks he feels a hand brush through his hair, but he can't be sure on the verge of unconsciousness as he is. Either way, he leans into it and lets the soothing caress lull him back into a blissfully dreamless sleep. He'll deal with whatever consequences this may bring in the morning, when he can think clearly.

However, it doesn't quite work out that way. Because when did _anything_ ever go his sodding way? John wakes sometime before the sun to a silent flat—all except for the sound of the slow, heavy breaths coming from the man beside him. Warm air tickles John's ear, and he cranes his neck carefully to see Sherlock sprawled over him—head on John's shoulder, arm slung over his chest, and one pajama-clad leg wrapped snugly around both of his. John's own arm is somehow fitted closely over Sherlock's lithe waist, fingers grazing a pale sliver of skin where his shirt has ridden up. Though that isn't what startles him the most in his post-sleep observations.

To his great surprise, John finds that his own aforementioned " _consequence"_ is currently pressed up against Sherlock's thigh, hard and insistent. He swears low under his breath, a sudden heat overcoming him of which he isn't sure is due to embarrassment, arousal, or both. Probably both. He's got to find a way out of this, _now,_ he thinks.

But, before John can even attempt to extricate himself, Sherlock unconsciously shifts, his thigh inadvertently rubbing against John's lap as he gets more comfortable. John's whole body jerks, and he gasps with a mixture of helpless pleasure and discomfort. Squeezing his eyes shut and trying to think of something else— _anything_ other than the frenetic detective currently using him as a body pillow—John begs his body to stop its immature and randy behavior without requiring the necessity of a cold shower. He takes steady, carefully timed breaths, hands fisted at his sides in concentration, biting down so hard on his lip that it nearly bleeds. After a few minutes, he convinces himself that it's working. Yes, he thinks it might be. That is, until:

"John," Sherlock sighs directly into his ear, and John freezes, wondering if Sherlock's woken up. Wondering if he's going to feel John's full-blown erection pushing against him and pack his bags before John has time to come up with an excuse. Not that there really is one to explain away this particular situation, he admits to himself.

"Oh, John," Sherlock murmurs again, and a covert glance reveals that he's still deeply asleep; immersed in the REM cycle through and through, eyes moving rapidly beneath his lids. His eyebrows silently arch as he contemplates his sleeping flatmate, and John wonders with a certain level of keen eagerness now, what Sherlock regularly dreams about in the bedroom just below his. He's never really wondered one way or another in the past about anyone's dreams, hasn't cared, but with the sound of his own name coming out of Sherlock's mouth like _that_? John blushes deeply at the connotations, aching to reach a hand down his pajama bottoms; which he distinctly _doesn't_ do, because it would be both immoral and impossible to do with Sherlock sleeping like dead weight on top of him. The arm around John's chest tightens infinitesimally as if he can sense the direction of his thoughts. Maybe the maddening genius actually could, somehow.

John feels trapped like a rat in some sort of strange sex experiment, unable to escape the bed _or_ have a wank; it's actually turning out to be thoroughly awful, and he thinks he wouldn't wish this kind of acute sexual frustration on almost anybody—it's practically the newest form of torture. John is logically sure that that isn't true, but it bloody well feels like it from where he's at.

Sherlock's breath still bears down hot on his neck, and John is contemplating just throwing him off and making a run for it—when the distinct sensation of a tongue laving lazily at his pulse point about sends him off the deep end completely. His eyes bug out of his head, and his one free arm reaches around and grabs Sherlock's waist, hard enough to leave a mark, a stifled groan dying in his throat. Though this only seems to make the situation somehow _worse;_ seeing as Sherlock is still _very much_ asleep, but is now groaning lowly in John's ear, and if he isn't mistaken, is sporting a new and very palpable stiffy of his own. It tents in his pajama bottoms and leaves little to the imagination even through the darkness. His hips have started to rock ever so slightly against John's, a subtle, unconscious movement, but it is driving John absolutely insane either way. For the love of Christ, he wishes he'd been forewarned somehow that Sherlock didn't sleepwalk, or even sleep-talk, but instead, apparently, had goddamn _sleep-sex_.

"Ooh, yes, _John_ ," Sherlock says in something close to a whimper, and John automatically feels his body start to respond in turn without his consent, his torso involuntarily twitching up off the bed in a split-second of weakness.

" _Christ,_ Sherlock," he gasps, barely regaining his ability to speak. "Wake up. Sherlock, wake _the hell_ up." He knows that he would be more likely to _actually_ wake the sleeping detective if he raised his voice above a whispered hiss, but in the moment it seems physically impossible. He clenches his teeth down on his bottom lip, and it takes genuine effort to keep himself glued to the bed. Sherlock's hand moves into John's hair at the nape of his neck as if he's done it a million times before, and John feels the gradual change in his breathing as it goes from deep and soft up into a lighter, panting rhythm, and with it the rutting of Sherlock's hips comes to a slow, until finally it ceases, giving John a moment of blessed relief.

Sherlock slowly lifts his head from his shoulder, hair mussed from sleep, and opens his eyes to stare at him inquisitively, probably wondering why John looks as if he's having an actual heart attack beneath him. He looks more adorably confused than John has ever seen him, eyebrows wrinkled and a slight frown marring his face.

"John?" he asks, and his voice is a sleep roughened rasp that makes John's cock twitch frustratedly. Sherlock's gaze darts down to John's pants, and his eyebrows ricochet up his forehead in a way that would have been comical any other time than right now. His mouth pops open to form a delicate 'o' shape. "Oh," he whispers.

Then looking down the length of his own body, he gasps, " _Oh._ "

Looking almost awe-struck, Sherlock sits up and is now kneeling on top of the covers, leaning back on his shins and taking in a deep breath. He rests his unclenched hands on his thighs, most likely having already deduced what had just happened. John thinks he is ethereally beautiful in this moment—he's always thought Sherlock was unconventionally attractive, but sometimes there were moments like this where his best features stood out in such a way that made him look almost supernaturally stunning. He can't tear his eyes away from the sight of him kneeling there with the moonlight coming in through the window accentuating the cut of his cheekbones and making his eyes reflect lumminesently back at him.

This is one of those rare moments where John desperately wishes he were artistic enough to capture the image of him on canvas and keep it forever, because going by the overwhelmed look on his face, the distance he's created between them on the bed—Sherlock is drawing a line, and John vows to himself right now to respect it, whatever it is. After all, this whole thing is his fault: letting Sherlock into his bed when John knew that his own hidden desires were likely to become an issue sooner rather than later. He's been found out. He's been found out, Sherlock doesn't feel the same (of course he doesn't), and it's over. He's been anticipating it for awhile now, because Sherlock is just too insanely intelligent to never catch it; John is actually surprised he's gotten away away with it this long.

Sherlock has trained all of his focus on him, head tilted to the side and eyes roaming rapidly over him with that familiar meticulous voracity. He's being thoroughly deduced, and John can only hope he won't be annihilated by whatever Sherlock says next.

It's silent for a long time, or at least it feels like it, and then Sherlock says, "This wasn't just the biochemical reaction of two living organisms introduced to external stimuli. No, of course it wasn't, how could I be so _blind_?" He blinks at John rapidly, as if he's some brand new conundrum. "You _desire_ me."

John winces, but he still can't help his own physical reaction to the words, and the way Sherlock speaks them; slow and accurate, voice deep and gravelly with sleep. John's pants instantly start to tighten again just at the sound of it, and he hastily reaches out to cover himself with a blanket, face turning scarlet.

It startles him when a large hand captures his midway, and pries the blanket carefully from his vice-like grip. When he looks up, Sherlock's eyes are wide and almost frantic, and focused completely on John. His eyebrows pull down at a sharp angle on his forehead, and suddenly he seems much closer as he breathes, "Do you not remember what I told you earlier? Don't do me the disservice of trying to hide yourself from me, John; you know... it doesn't... work." His voice shakes just slightly, as if raising his voice any louder than a whisper might cause it to falter.

John is breathing a tad faster now, pupils dilating. Sherlock's own typically light eyes look nearly black themselves as they flicker over his face trying to detect a reaction. He's still holding John's hand, and slowly, giving him plenty of time to pull away if he had wanted to, he brings his hand to rest lightly over the erection tenting his pajamas. He presses their linked hands harder against himself, encouraging him. "See?" he says softly, hardening under John's touch. "It's all fine."

They are both stock still for a moment, just staring at each other across what suddenly seems like far too much empty space between them. Sherlock's breathing is just as labored as his, and there's something almost desperate in his eyes, the faded blue t-shirt he wears hitching with every breath. John isn't sure how much time stretches on before it happens, or who starts it; but suddenly they're locked together, lips sloppily slotting against each other in a heated kiss.

The full-bodied tension that had been sticking persistently to him like cobwebs for weeks melts away and seems to roll off his fingertips like water as he relaxes into the embrace, fingers finding purchase in Sherlock's wondrously soft head of curls. John had always been somewhat of a player—had his first kiss in primary school and took off running from there—but in all candor, he's never had a kiss that felt like this. Though to be fair to all those that came before this, none of them had been with Sherlock, which immediately knocked several points off the top. He lets himself sink into the kiss, hardly knowing what to do with his hands now that they're suddenly allowed to roam over Sherlock as they please. He lets himself indulge in all of the new sensations flooding his system, succumbing to siren-like pull of Sherlock Holmes at full volume.

With the first gasp of Sherlock's breath against his mouth, John feels thrilled all the way down to his bones.

With the first insistent pull of Sherlock's long arm around his waist, he feels inclined to let his shaking muscles go limp and collapse into a puddle of pure need on his sheets.

With the first indulgent tug of Sherlock's long fingers buried in his hair, he feels a surge of delightful surrealism which makes him drag Sherlock impossibly closer still, lips searching frantically, hungry.

When they are both breathless and gasping, and pause to lean their heads against each other, John realizes that he feels more unconditionally at home right where he is, pressed up against this extraordinary madman, than he ever had in his own childhood house.

"John," Sherlock whispers, and John can sense in his tone the confusion, the questions, the deductions dying to voice themselves and take over this perfect moment. But above all else is the yearning and the unfiltered lust present in his breathless baritone. For both of their sake, John decides it can wait.

"Shh, hush now." He lets his hand creep into Sherlock's pajama bottoms, feels Sherlock hot and throbbing as he closes his hand around him and tugs experimentally upward. Sherlock lets loose a groan and grips John tightly by his hips, all protestations gone, as he sweeps his thumb expertly over the head and uses the warm wetness there to make the next glide of his hand over Sherlock's skin slick and effortless. The sense of disbelief and giddy urgency had faded into a singular passionate intensity, and John is slow and precise in his movements now, watching Sherlock's reactions with relished anticipation. Sherlock lets his head crane back against his neck, cheeks flushed a rosy hue and his remarkably full lips parting in pleasure.

With that long expanse of pale neck exposed, John can't find a reason to deny himself the taste of it. He leans forward and opens his mouth against Sherlock's hot skin, nipping and sucking languidly at the pulse point. It nearly undoes him when he realizes he can feel Sherlock's heartbeat hammering, faster than a hummingbird's wings, under his tongue. His hand still grips Sherlock's hardened length, stroking unhurriedly. He thinks the hollow of his throat must be one of his sensitive spots, because Sherlock shivers and lets out a soft moan when John's mouth roams over it. "John…" His arms tighten further around John's waist, like a warning. "Oh, that's good."

This gives John an idea, and without further thought, he lets his teeth scrape the area again (rougher, this time) while simultaneously giving a firm squeeze with the hand down Sherlock's pants. Sherlock gasps and pushes at his shoulders frustratedly. "John, _please,"_ he growls contemptibly, but there's just the hint of desperation hidden in his tone.

John, unbothered, smiles against his throat. "I don't think I've ever heard you say please once since I've known you," he chuckles, and pulls back to see the flushed discontent on Sherlock's face. God, he never thought he would get to see him like this. _Fuck it_ , John thinks, and maneuvers them so Sherlock's back faces the headboard, then eases him down onto the pillows and hovers over him. Sherlock stares up at him wide-eyed and mouth gaping open, unused to this side of John. With a smirk, he leans down to breathe in his ear, "Now let's see if you can say it like you mean it." Sherlock sucks in a rapid breath and bites down on his bottom lip, doesn't take his half-lidded eyes off of him as he starts to make his way down Sherlock's body.

Maybe he shouldn't take such great pleasure in shocking the all-knowing consulting detective speechless, but he really does.

Keeping a close eye on Sherlock in case something becomes too much for him to handle, John leans down to lift up the bottom of his t-shirt, dropping lingering little kisses from sternum to hip and back again. The smattering of wiry hair low on his flat belly seems somehow out of place; maybe subconsciously John had thought that every part of Sherlock would be just as clean shaven as he kept his face. Either way, the hair here is a shade lighter than the hair on his head (almost copper) and the mystery of it only serves to make him even more appealing. When he reaches the 'v' of Sherlock's hips, he glances back up for confirmation, and Sherlock nods quickly, breath puffing out his nostrils in spurts of heated excitement. He wants it to be verbal though, wants to hear Sherlock say it.

"Sherlock. God, can I—"

"God yes, _yes_ , John, anything."

Just the words make John's skin burst with a newfound heat. John eases the fabric down his hips, and Sherlock's cock bounces against his stomach as he frees it. It's rock hard and leaking from the head, a flushed dusky pink color; it is perfectly long and slender, just like the rest of him.

He must stay gazing at it a moment too long, because Sherlock's fingers reach down to tug impatiently in his hair. "John, get on with it," he whines, panting with the anticipation. " _Please._ "

John smirks at the last word. _That's more like it_ , he thinks, and leans forward to take Sherlock into his mouth all at once. God, John hasn't done this since his university days, but he still thinks Sherlock must taste better than all of them. The way he remembers it, the others had always tasted sourly of sweat, with an eye-squinting bitter undertone, no matter if they'd just scrubbed themselves clean in the shower or not. Sherlock, contrastingly, tastes naturally fresh and unsullied, and the saltiness of his skin is actually rather pleasant.

He sets a rhythm, head bobbing up and down as Sherlock shivers and squirms under him, trying futilely to conceal the indecorous sounds building in his throat and threatening to escape his mouth. He trails a hand up Sherlock's side and up under his shirt, tweaks an already stiffened nipple, which he discovers is another one of those special spots when Sherlock's eyes bug out of his skull with an accompanying groan. John lets his pace taper when Sherlock starts to twitch against his tongue, then pauses to lick a hot, slow line up the side of a particularly bulging vein. That does it.

"Oh, Jesus _fuck_ ," Sherlock exclaims throatily, and yanks John up to his level, greedily capturing his lips with a moan. John lets himself fall into the kiss, wonders if Sherlock can taste himself on his mouth. Using his own trick against him, Sherlock reaches almost spitefully below the waistline of John's pants and gives an enticing pull, and feeling like a teenager again, John is already far closer to coming than he normally would be. John breaks away from the kiss and leans over to fumble through the second drawer of his nightstand for the small bottle of lube he keeps hidden there. Though living with Sherlock, he's not sure why he even tries to hide things like this; the insufferable twat had probably known where it was hidden from the day John had bought it.

Casting all other thoughts aside, John allows himself a moment to observe the unique beauty of the man beneath him. Sherlock's breath is hitching rapidly, ratty t-shirt ridden up to his chest and wrinkled by the indentations of John's fingers. His pupils are blown wide with arousal, a thin ring of murky blue outlining them. His pink lips are parted and swollen, his cheeks such a mottled shade of red that they almost look bruised, and his long, pale arms are splayed candidly on either side of his body, making him look uncannily like a lustful maiden on the cover of a romance novel. John is aware somewhere in the back of his mind that he has been gazing at him for too long, once again. Sherlock's expression begins to falter, misinterpreting his expression. He looks immediately rejected, which John thinks is ridiculous. After all, who would reject Sherlock Holmes from their bed? Personal bias aside, John has heard the way people talk, knows acutely the whispers and wandering gazes that follow Sherlock everywhere he goes.

"John?" he asks dubiously, and John doesn't immediately answer, trying to reel himself out of his admiriational reverie. Sherlock's eyes steel themselves and break contact remarkably fast, and he begins to sit up, moving his arms unconsciously to cover his body. John snaps to then, and hastily lowers Sherlock's arms back to his side, bringing his face closer to his. He blinks at the proximity, but makes no attempts to break away, letting himself be held in place. The fluttering pulse in Sherlock's wrist and the mussed curls spread out over the pillow threaten to divert his attention again, but he forces himself to look only at Sherlock's eyes and nothing else; which isn't much better, honestly.

"No, Sherlock. Sorry—I was just," he sighs, clenches his eyes shut and focuses on making a coherent sentence come out of his mouth. "I was just...looking at you. I l—" he catches himself, amends what he almost let slip. "I _like_ you like this."

Sherlock looks at him bemusedly, tilts his head to the side. "Like…?"

He really has no idea, John thinks in awe. He really doesn't see the distinct interest in people's eyes as they watch him swan around the city in his great big coat, and with an arse so distracting that it could make a nun stop to ogle at it. All Sherlock must glean from those looks are the accusations people like Sally Donovan and Arsehole Anderson spit at him. _Freak, psychopath, dangerous._ And oh, yes, John agrees with the dangerous part without doubt, but in way that's completely different from the way people like Sally mean it. Sherlock is just the kind of dangerous that John needs.

He presses a palm reverently against Sherlock's cheek, smiling down at him and letting the love shine through in his gaze, even if he's too cowardly to voice it just yet. He shakes his head. "Silly man. I like you like _this_ ," he smooths his thumbs pointedly over his hotly flushed cheeks, and Sherlock's stiffness begins to ebb.

"Like this..." He leans forward, sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, nipping at the soft skin to earn a small gasp. He leans back to find Sherlock's eyes have slipped shut, lips parted and trying to follow his blindly as he pulls away. Before Sherlock fully registers his absence, he reaches out without hesitance and grabs hold of his cock, pressing a thumb into the base and circling it with enough finesse to make Sherlock's back arch off of the bed with an indecently loud groan. " _Like that,"_ John whispers.

"Come here," Sherlock snarls, and grabs John harshly by the back of the neck with both hands, pulling him down for yet another blissfully wild kiss, teeth clacking together in their haste. They try to divest themselves of their clothes, but they both end up with their pants just hastily pushed midway down their thighs. Sherlock's hand splays over the nightstand searchingly, and soon he is pouring a generous amount of lube into his palm, fervently coating his own cock and then reaching for John's to do the same. John hisses as Sherlock holds them together with one large hand, thrusting up into it with force, veins in his neck straining as he throws his head back against the headboard with a primal groan of satisfaction. Their skin slides easily against each others', without impediment, and all of John's nerve endings are on fire with the unreplicable sensation of it. They set a steady pace together, and John knows that neither of them will last long.

"Sherlock, _Sherlock_ , oh, God—"

A hand reaches up to clutch the side of his neck as they rut against each other, and before he knows it he is being pulled down to rest his head somewhere between Sherlock's chest and his shoulder. "I've got you, John, I have you. Let go with me, it's alright," Sherlock pants in his ear, pulling him somehow closer against his body to prove the validity of his words.

So John does. He practically collapses on top of him, and with Sherlock keeping them firmly gripped together, John lets his desires take over his movements, and frots against Sherlock's cock with abandon, grunting incoherent indecencies and praise into his ear as he feels his release building quickly in his lower abdomen. Sherlock whimpers and squirms and moans profanities with hot breath against his skin, and John knows he can't withstand it for much longer, because just the sound of Sherlock panting his name is going to make him come. Sherlock cranes his neck and sucks one of John's earlobes into his mouth, grazing it roughly with his teeth, and John's eyes roll back in his head. He cries out with pleasure, and feels his rhythm falter, a violent twitch in his abdomen warning him. "Sherlock, I'm—I'm going to—"

"I said _let go_ , John. No hiding, remember?" With that Sherlock sinks teeth into the flesh of his neck, his soul-deep groan of ecstasy vibrating through John's chest as Sherlock unravels completely beneath him, crying out unintelligibly and clutching him like a lifeline. John follows him over the edge, calling his name with no regard for his volume or for listening ears. His whole body is in a state of other, and the orgasm that rocks through him is probably powerful enough to bring the building down.

He shudders like a frail thing as he sprawls bonelessly on top of him, spent and unbelievably satisfied. Sherlock kisses and licks sweetly, almost like a cat, at the new formed bruises on John's neck as they ride out their euphoria in waves. Sherlock lazily kisses his shoulder once they've both come down with a gentle push on his chest, and John rolls to his side obligingly in a lovely, post-sex haze. He feels quite content to just listen to the sound of Sherlock's breathing, slowly easing from labored panting back toward his normal sinus rhythm. Already half-unconscious, John's eyes struggle open as he feels the bed shift, and he smiles dumbly at the sight of Sherlock before he realizes that he's trying to sneak out of the bed.

John's hand fumbles for his wrist across the ruined sheets and his lips curl down into a frown. "Mmm. Where d'ya think you're going?"

"Hush, go back to sleep. I'll return in just a moment," Sherlock chides gently, and John's eyes force themselves closed again before he's even stood up. It seems like hours have passed when he hears Sherlock come back into the room, though John knows he's slipping indecipherably in and out of sleep, and it's probably only been the matter of a few minutes. His eyes remain stubbornly shut, but he feels a damp, warm flannel carefully wipe up the mess on his stomach. He hears it being tossed down onto the nightstand with a wet slap, and Sherlock's weight creates a dip in the mattress as he climbs back under the covers with him. John's eyes flutter, and as he rolls towards him and settles against Sherlock's chest, and he thinks dazedly that everything feels absolutely perfect. He sighs contentedly as Sherlock's arm settles protectively over his shoulder. He can tell Sherlock had changed clothes while he was out of the room. The shirt under John's cheek is softer than the one he wore before, and it smells comfortingly of Sherlock's favored laundry softener.

"Goodnight, John," the ghosting pressure of lips on his temple makes him smile. John feels the fingers of Sherlock's other hand lightly, absently caressing his cheek. John mumbles something sleepily into his shoulder.

"Hmm?" Sherlock responds, half-asleep now himself.

"Love you, Sh'lock," John reiterates louder, voice a heavy slur.

The hand on John's cheek abruptly freezes, but John doesn't notice much of anything at all as he finally lets himself sink into the insistent darkness of a deep, sated sleep.

When John wakes in the morning, his face is stuck to his pillow, and from the uncomfortable stillness of his muscles he knows he must have spent several hours sleeping in the same position, unmoving. He stretches carefully, trying to coax his body into movement, and promptly remembers the night before with cheek-reddening clarity; hoping frantically that it hadn't just been the most realistic dream of his sad, sad life. His eyes fall on the wet, tattered old flannel still laying on his nightstand, and he sighs his relief. The last thing he vaguely remembers is the sensation of it against his stomach, wiping up their mess. He hopes he hadn't made too much a fool of himself in his post-sex delirium.

So, it _did_ happen, then. John doesn't regret a second of it, except for the fact that it hadn't happened sooner. He can only desperately hope Sherlock feels the same. Of course John would never— _could_ never—make himself leave 221B, but it would be unbearably difficult to pretend this had never happened if that was how Sherlock wanted it to be. He lifts his stiff neck to peer around the room searchingly. Sherlock no longer lies next to him, and when John's hand spreads over his side of the bed it's cold. There is hardly a sound coming from downstairs, so John wonders if Sherlock had run off on a case without telling him, as if it were any other morning. Though not surprising, it might hurt John's ego a bit if he were to walk downstairs to find the flat empty after the night they had spent together.

Eventually John rolls himself out of bed and puts on a fresh pair of pants and pajama bottoms, and finds himself following the smell of sausage and warm, buttery scones downstairs. His stomach growls alarmingly. _Might as well face the music,_ he thinks as he trots down the steps. He emerges at the bottom of the stairs with his head high, unashamed. Even if Sherlock regrets having sex with him, John doesn't and he won't pretend he does. Whatever their respective feelings, John is confident they'll work through it somehow. They always do.

Sherlock sits in his customary spot at the kitchen table, hands clasped demurely over each other on the tabletop. He is gazing contemplatively into the distance, but when John walks in his focus shifts to meet his eyes unreadably. John recognizes the posture as one of Sherlock's more troubling thinking poses. "Morning," John greets, unsure.

"Good morning." Sherlock's eyes still haven't flinched from their position, and in the full daylight it's only a little unnerving. Even as good as John has gotten at reading Sherlock, his expression now is expertly impervious even to him. He points to the breakfast-laden tray next to Sherlock on the table, still halted in the entrance to the kitchen. Surely Sherlock hadn't become so domesticated overnight.

"Did you…?"

"Oh," Sherlock finally blinks, glances down at it. "No. Mrs. Hudson."

"Ah."

"Mm."

He wants to move forward and hang all over Sherlock, sit in his lap and kiss him good morning like he has imagined doing for so long now. But he knows Sherlock, knows his tendencies, and so he pours himself an extra large cup of coffee and patiently lets Sherlock observe him, no matter how hard it is for him to keep to himself. He sees Sherlock's own cup is empty and he automatically fills it again, nudging the dish of sugar cubes towards him to over-sweeten his cup as needed. It isn't until John is almost finished loading up a plate for himself that Sherlock speaks.

His long arms cross over his chest, and he hugs his dressing gown around him. It's the blue one this morning, different from the red he wore last night. The blue one Sherlock wears when he's in a strop and craves the overworn comfort of it.

He narrows those piercing eyes on him. "What we did last night. You've done that before." His tone is on the edge of accusatory, and John knows why, obviously.

John chews his food, swallows with a little difficulty before answering. "Had sex?" he asks, purposefully ignorant. "Yes, Sherlock, you know I have—"

"Not. What. I. Meant," he enunciates slowly, falsely calm as he steeples his hands under his chin.

John sighs, smirks just slightly as he looks at the floor. "You really didn't know before?"

Sherlock is silent, stewing.

"Okay, yeah," John swallows a bite of toast and brushes the crumbs from his fingers. He sits back in his chair and looks up at Sherlock boldly. "I've never had a boyfriend—male partner, whatever. It never got that personal for me. But I've had...experiences...with men. In university, mainly. A few times when I first started in the military, but not really after that. Got too caught up in being a doctor." He shrugs.

Sherlock is still silent, eyes narrowed on him, posture impossibly still. John doesn't think he's blinked more than once since he walked in. John sighs as he wipes his mouth with a napkin, staring back. "Seriously, Sherlock—you don't have to feel bad you didn't catch it. When I met you, it'd been a decade since I'd even looked twice at another man. You couldn't have known."

Sherlock only continues with the same staring bit, so John wordlessly goes back to his plate, knowing he'll have to come off of it eventually even if it's just to ask John to pull the phone out of his shirt pocket.

"Not gay," Sherlock clips out, and John blinks at him.

"Sorry?"

"That's what you always say. 'Not gay'. Whenever someone assumes we are... _together_ , you become irritated. 'Not gay', 'he's not my boyfriend'. You get _defensive_."

Ah, so therein lies the problem. Not that Sherlock hadn't deduced it on his own—though that was probably still part of it. John sighs. "Sherlock, I don't know what your family is like—other than Mycroft, so, yikes. But mine never would have accepted me had I ever made it known that I was bi. I mean, God, Harry got caught kissing another girl once and Dad sent her to conversion camp for the next five summers and Mum spent the rest of her life hiding in the closet with a bottle in her hand." He shakes his head, remembering the screaming and crying, doors slamming as Harry packed her bags for the last time and never came back, their father shouting after her that homos weren't welcome in his house, anyway. The whole thing had left a brand on his memory which he'd really rather just forget.

"I saw how badly it affected Harry...I never wanted to open myself up to that once I realized I had an interest in men as well as women. Plus, I had never met anyone I cared about enough to come out for, either. If Dad had found out when I was younger, he never would have helped me pay for med school. So, I just kept it to myself, and it kind of became habit to deny it. But now, there's you," he scooches closer and grabs Sherlock's hand. Looks up to find his thunderstorm-blue eyes softer, more empathetic, somehow as they settle on him. If Sherlock were his, John thinks, he would shout it from the rooftops and make t-shirts with their faces on them. He would be so over the moon to call this man his, he wouldn't give a shit who approved or didn't. Sherlock gives his hand a reaffirming squeeze.

John bites his lip, suddenly irrationally nervous. Last night they had sex, and now he's anxious about a few little words? He takes a breath and continues on, though, knowing another opportunity to say this may not come along for a very long time if he doesn't snatch this one up while he can.

"Now, there's you, Sherlock," he repeats, voice shaking imperceptibly. "And I realized almost straight away that I would do just about anything to keep you. Whether or not that means being with you the way I truly want to be...or just being your best friend and pretending that I'm not…" his voice falters, and for a second he's genuinely afraid he might pass out. The words are stuck like pebbles in his throat. _Soldier on._

"Pretending that I'm not as madly in love with you as I actually am."

"What?" Sherlock whispers disbelievingly, and there's the saddest look of hopefulness on his face John's ever seen. It makes John want to kiss his eyelids and take the look away, but his mouth won't stop talking now that it's started.

He ensconces Sherlock's face between his hands, suddenly desperate to convey to this man how important, how _vital_ he is. " _I love you_ , Sherlock. I have done for awhile now, and I don't give a toss what anyone else has to say about it. You're amazing, and you're beautiful, and you're absolutely brilliant beyond words. You are what is _right_ for me, Sherlock, and it's okay if you don't feel the same for me, it really is, I just can't keep this to myself any longer, and I—"

John is caught off guard when Sherlock shuts him up with a kiss. All thoughts vacate his head except for the repetitive affirmation of, _I love you, I love you, I love you._

He'd actually had the bollocks to say it. John can scarcely believe it himself.

Sherlock's soft lips pull away from his too soon and John wonders if it really was just a tactic to shut him up or if Sherlock had actually wanted to kiss him. Sherlock's forehead leans against his.

"Shut up," he says.

"But—"

"I love you too."

"But—wait. What?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes theatrically, but there's a soft smile undeniably present on his lips. "You know I loathe repetition, John."

John is barely listening though. There is an increasingly auspicious buoyancy building up in him as the seconds pass. He has the distinct impression that he must look like the world's stupidest goldfish, gaping at Sherlock like he is. "You really mean it, don't you? You _love me_."

This time the eye roll is a little more realistic. "Of course, you idiot. Similar to you, I knew very soon after we met that I would be lost without you. My blogger." His voice softens favorably on the last word, and then John is being kissed again, but it is somehow sweeter this time than all of the others. A chaste brush of lips. He'd never figured Sherlock would be so inclined towards physical affection, but John is only happier to find that he is.

"And then that night, at the pool," Sherlock's hands tighten around his middle where they'd come to rest, voice lower now, more serious.

"I saw you there, in such danger, and I was so genuinely _afraid_ ," he sounds mildly perplexed at that. "In that moment, I saw my feelings for you as they actually are. I knew right then that I would follow you wherever you were to go." _Even into death,_ is evident in his countenance, even if he doesn't say it. "A world without you in it would be a miserable place for me, John."

"Oh, Sherlock," he murmurs, and pulls his detective into an embrace, standing on his toes to reach him. Sherlock seems to melt into his arms with ease. "You're not going to lose me. I'll always be here. It's the two of us, yeah?" He tightens his arms around Sherlock's shoulders for emphasis, and Sherlock nods into his neck, somehow having folded his lanky self up to fit there perfectly. As Sherlock relaxes in his arms, John has to take a moment to marvel at how much of Sherlock there was that the world didn't get to see. How much of himself he kept hidden, protected. John had loved him before, when he came off as an arrogant, apathetic, brilliant bastard—which he still did, and John still loves him for it—but now there is a whole other side of Sherlock for him to explore, for him to fall in love with.

He rubs his hands soothingly over Sherlock's spine. "And anyway, if I weren't here, who would write up all the daft situations we get ourselves into and make you look like a superhero to the internet? It's not all about you, you tit. People love my blog."

And just like that, Sherlock explodes with a round of raucous giggling. John doesn't even pretend to resist, and soon they're gripping each other and shaking with shared laughter. John can't help but think it's exponentially better, to laugh with Sherlock in his arms rather than leaned separately up against the wall of an alleyway. At least here so close to him, he can feel the bright laughter rippling out of Sherlock's mouth to course right through John's chest, as if that was where it had belonged all along.

The next week, they work a particularly thrilling case involving a midnight chase through a corn maze and extremely convincingly fabricated UFOs. John had agreed with Sherlock that they keep their new relationship status on the downlow for the time being to give them a period of adjustment, and enough time to heedlessly enjoy it before the press got involved. Though Sherlock insisted that the lot over at Scotland Yard had an ongoing pool on when exactly they would give in and get together, and he was loathe to let Anderson win this month. How he knew was beyond John, but he didn't doubt that he was more than likely spot on with it.

Though they had decided to keep the whole thing fairly quiet, when he writes up the case, which he titles The Case of Extraterrestrial Espionage, (Sherlock scoffs and rolls his eyes, but now it's accompanied by a kiss to John's temple, so John finds he doesn't mind it) he knows he embellishes a little too obviously on how "strikingly otherworldly" Sherlock looks lit up by the lights of the fake UFO as they ran through the maze. But by the time he realizes how it must sound, it's already been posted and he figures to hell with it. He'd posted less incriminating comments about Sherlock in the past and still gotten shite for it, so he figures maybe no one will notice the difference this time around.

Mere seconds after he has notices his slip up, though, the computer chimes happily with an alert, and a blurb appears on the screen. He squints to read it.

 **1 new notification for The blog of Dr. John H. Watson**

John clicks on it, and the comments section for The Case of Extraterrestrial Espionage pops up, displaying the message **1 new comment from Harry Watson** in bolded green print. John briefly closes his eyes and takes a breath before reading it.

True to herself, she gets right to the point.

 **Harry Watson:** _You_ sure _you're not gay, Johnny?_

He usually ignores Harry's comments on his blog ( _especially_ the ones where she asks him if he's gay), but he hardly feels like he can do that now. Pain in his arse she may be, but she is still his sister. John sighs, counts to ten in his head. Takes another deep breath, then sets his fingers to the keyboard to type out one simple request.

 **John Watson:** _Call me._

 ** _/_**

 ** _AN: Thanks everyone for reading, and please don't forget; reviews are soul food._**


End file.
